Closet
by Devilish Kurumi
Summary: The room is dark, damp, and pulsing with the bassline from the party outside. Trent's sure he's going to Hell. Trent/Miles, allusions.


**A/N:** It had to be done. Also, lolz I only realized at the end how appropriate the setting was.

* * *

The air is supercharged in here, warm and damp and pulsing with the bass from the party outside. _It's too fucking small,_ Trent thinks, back pressed up to the wall of the closet, a stray hanger jabbing into his side every time the other occupant of the room pushes up against him, which is often, repeatedly, rolling awkward and semi-in time with the music blasting on the other side of the door. Dark parties are the best, because no one ever really notices who's with who and who's doing what, and Trent is just drunk enough that - 

If anything, the other with him is far drunker, face flushed and hands awkwardly sliding along belt buckles, fumbling to grasp the leather and unlatch them. His own hands grasp at the bar near the ceiling, grip slick with sweat as he rocks forward and keeps worse time than the blonde. "C'mon," he hears the other mumble, eyes downcast and focused blearily on the task at hand. There's a click as metal pulls loose, Trent's belt coming undone under sweaty palms. Trent changes position, shifting slightly forward into the other's hands and lowering one of his own from the pole to a slightly curved hipbone - a skater's kind of build, he thinks dazedly, just curved enough that if he closes his eyes it could be -

He closes his eyes and falls back against the wall, dropping his other hand to start his own awkward attempts on his companion's belt, holding his breath for a long moment as hands work at slipping in under denim and cotton. When those hands finally get past the hem and sink lower, he exhales sharply, head tilting back and throat tightening - and all his partner can say is, "_Oh,_" like it's some kind of new fucking thing for him, which it _can't_ be, not the way he's been _looking_ at Trent all summer, ever since Witwicky went off to do God-knows-what...

Their first kiss involves mashing their mouths together, teeth clacking against one another as Trent finds himself shoving his tongue into the other's mouth, shuddering when his pants drop lower and the blonde's hand starts to move, slow and shaky and a little strangely because of the angle. His hips tilt and he jerks a bit, hand pausing in it's attempt to remove the other's belt as he bites down on _someone's_ lip - whose, he has no idea. He's too drunk to even feel pain, just this strange, bad pleasure that'll be plastered all over school come fall...

"Tre-aaaah-nt..."

He moans against the other's cheek and realizes that he's _so turned on _by that slight whine to the other's voice, hands finally undoing the belt buckle. He'd feel sick if it weren't so fucking hot. It's pleading and moaning and he thinks to himself as he grinds up against the blonde's hand, _I'm going to Hell._

Not that it matters much, arms crisscrossing as he slides his hand into the other's shorts, gasping shortly for air and not at all prepared for the sudden yelp when his watchstrap catches on hair.

"_Fuck,_" Trent murmurs, not in apology but in shock because he wants to make the other make that noise again and again and never stop.

"'S okay, oh, just-"

Trent responds immediately by pulling them both down to the ground, the hanger leaving a thin scratch as he does so - the blonde is pulling at him, so he leans over, hand pulling at the shorts, getting them just as low as his own pants -

Heavy breathing and awkward, jerky movements are something Trent's used to, and he uses that edge over his companion to grind down, hard, drawing a low moan out. _Keep talking,_ he thinks, even if it ruins the illusion that this isn't -

"P-Please-- aah!"

It comes out before he can stop it, the same murmurings he's used time and time again, voice low and rough as he grinds against the other. "Keep talkin', baby. God, it's so hot."

It works the same way it always does - knees bend, backs arch, a hot mouth stumbles to find his, calling his name and begging, "Please, harder, oh, _please!_" And who is he not to oblige?

"Fuck," he hisses, pulling back suddenly - this is getting them nowhere; they need...

His hands pull at those stupid khaki shorts and he leans up, staring down into wide eyes until they clench shut and the body under him starts writhing in his grasp - _He's never done this before, oh, God we're going to Hell_ - and why can't he _shut up?_

"You're so _hot,_ God, just saying my name..."

"_Trent_..."

A thrill runs up his spine and he fumbles for a moment, wet mouth trailing to the other's ear, hands shaking so badly, and he whispers, "_Miles._"

The other cries out, jerking wildly in Trent's hands before going limp, sweat making hair cling to his face and in his mouth. Trent pulls back and stares. _He's pretty fucking hot._

"...Trent..."

His hands, sticky and still shaking, reach for his own pants, sliding them down just enough, watching the glint in Miles' eyes as he focuses on what Trent's doing, his mouth parted in a slow, tired pant. His hand reaches out and rests on Trent's thigh, looking as though he were slowly waking up - which could be the case. This could all be a whiskey-and-coke induced dream.

Trent tilts his head back and grunts as he finishes himself off, bass still thumping through him even as he drops forward, landing halfway on Miles with a low exhale.

They're silent for a long while.

"I..."

"Don't," Trent mumbles, hands still caught against his abdomen.

"But..."

"Just _don't._"

He pushes himself up after another minute of awkward silence and stands, pulling his pants back up. Miles stares up at him. _If he were a girl..._ "Don't look at me like that."

"I'm not trying to look at you. It just sorta... happens."

"Yeah, well, don't."

Miles looks hurt for one second and Trent feels miserable.

"Fucking... Put your pants on, dude. Nobody wants to see that."

He's almost looking right again by the time Miles has stood and pulled his shorts up, refusing to look at the other. _I'm going to Hell._

"Sorry."

The apology catches him by surprise, but he hides it well enough - or maybe Miles is just too drunk to notice - because the blonde is steeling himself to step out into the party.

"I'll go first."

He slips through the door, and after a minute, Trent does the same. Miles is nowhere to be found. Trent enjoys the rest of the party and spends the rest of that night - and the night after that, and the one after _that -_ lying in bed, imagining he's inside a closet with Miles.

* * *

_I want you to say my name again, so don't stop don't stop don't turn around..._


End file.
